


The Adventure of the Ghostly Mouse

by lynndyre



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Mice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/pseuds/lynndyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the last night of October, 1898, I was returning to Baker Street after an evening house call ....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Ghostly Mouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookinguptales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookinguptales/gifts).



On the last night of October, 1898, I was returning to Baker Street after an evening house call on an elderly gentlemouse whose lungs had been badly affected by the London fog. That selfsame fog was my companion on my walk. Failing to chance upon a hansom going my way, I cut through Regent's Park in the hope of cleaner air, and fewer tramping feet.

The fog was still present in the park, but the quality of the air was marginally improved and breath came easier. The wind was chill, and blew the yellow haze in strange eddies through the trees, and along the path. There was little light; the streetlamps did not reach so far, and what moonlight there was had confronted London's coal smoke and gone elsewhere. Yet the path was a familiar one beneath my footpaws, and the walk was not unpleasant.

I reached the bridge across the Boating lake even as midnight approached. The air grew colder. Not the chill of wind coming off the water- nor indeed the chill of any wind at all, for as I neared the footbridge the wind reached a lull, and the still air had me shivering despite the wool of my coat. As I set foot on the bridge the mercury seemed to fall still lower, and I buried my nose in my scarf and hunched my shoulders against the cold.

So distracted was I by the sudden inclemency that I had reached the center of the bridge before realising I was not alone. At the highest point of the stone, a tall brown mouse stood smoking, wearing the uniform of her majesty's army. The uniform I had worn myself- in the desert. 

He turned, the cherry of his cigarette red in the murky dark, and I saw it was Joseph Meadows, a friend and fellow doctor I'd served with in Afghanistan. The sound his body made when the cat bit down on it is one that lingers in my nightmares still. And now he stood before me, looking as he had two years past.

"I don't like to bother you, Dawson, but if you could see your way to looking up my old stash at St Barts? I left a lot of old books and papers there, before we shipped out, and there was a will among them that should have gone to my people. It'd see that Edie got my things, even though I never came back to marry her."

I remembered Edie, from a photograph Meadows had kept with him everywhere we were stationed. We buried that photograph and Meadows' favourite novel, in the absence of his body.

I made some reply, though I couldn't tell you what it was. Meadows thanked me, just as if we'd been dining together, or collaborating on some professional issue, and I saw that his cigarette was still full-length. Still lit, glowing red, but it had not, did not burn down. Meadows caught my gaze.

"It's not a bad living, dying. But I wouldn't try it sooner'n I had to." The shadows of his uniform were spreading, darkening, wet and red in the shape of a cat's jaws. "Check on Edie, will you, Dawson?"

And then the bridge was empty.

I little remember the rest of my journey home. Certainly I cannot clearly recall crossing the Outer Circle of the Park, or reaching the corner of Baker Street. I returned to myself only inside our rooms, as the heat of the fire began to seep through the chill that went down to my bones.

Had Basil been at home when I returned, I fear little could have kept me from confessing the entire encounter, for I was shaken, and strongly in need of my friend's ear. But our little flat was empty, Basil out upon some errand, and the strains of violin music from above served only to drive home my sense of isolation.

I poured myself a drop of brandy. As I watched the fire, I considered what my ghost story must sound like to a mouse of reason, of logic. To Basil, so devoted a student of such thought. Seeing spirits like a fanciful child. I resolved not to speak of it, and took myself to bed before Basil returned. Despite the brandy, sleep did not come easily. 

My resolve solid, the memory of Meadows' apparition nonetheless remained in my thoughts the next morning, and I confess it did not require my friend's remarkable powers of observation to deduce that I was troubled. Mrs Judson's good crumpets did not deserve the mangling I gave them.

"Dawson. Will you not confide in me?" He set his coffee down, intent and focused upon me. And there was in his eyes such an expression of concern, of caring, that I reproached myself for the previous night's thoughts.

I pushed aside my plate and allowed Basil to refresh my cup, and I told him everything I could remember of the night before. Unlike my overwrought fears, Basil did not deride me- indeed he seemed to grow more and more fascinated as I went on. By the time I had reached my return to Baker Street, Basil was no longer at the table, but up and pacing the room.

"Had you been returning via Marylebone Road it might have been the trick of some enterprising young waxworker- but that would have afforded the figure no movement." He spun, and paced back the other way. "Mr Flangershaw of course has proved that clockwork replicas can be constructed well enough to fool the British public, but I should hardly characterise you as the public, Dawson, and in any case-" he gestured expansively with both hands and his tail, "there were substantial mechanisms involved that would be difficult to conceal in the center of a bridge." 

I found myself encouraged to smile, and forbore to correct him on Flaversham's name. "What do you suggest?"

Basil's eyes glittered. "I suggest you get a fresh plate and eat something, Dawson. I'm going to have a little look round the park. And then we shall investigate St Bartholomew's, and see if your spectre was telling the truth!" He clapped me on the shoulder, and a moment later had vanished out the door in a flurry of greatcoat sleeves.

I retrieved a new crumpet from the dish, and when I bit down, I found the smile was still on my face.


End file.
